Orannis
by Eoin
Summary: A fire mage creates death and destruction on his path to godliness.
1. The Second Fire

The Second Fire

* * *

"Mama?" the boy said, touching the woman's shoulder. She lay still and pale on a pile of blankets in the corner of the shed. One grimy window let in weak evening light, which fell on the boy where he crouched next to her. He had uncut black hair, like her, and dark eyes. He wore a ragged vest and trousers that had once fit, before he began the growth spurt of adolescence. He shook her shoulder harder, calling her again. She stirred, and he called her again. She began to move, and he helped her sit up.

"Water," she murmured weakly. The boy reached across to where a pitcher stood on the uneven dirt floor, and brought it to her lips. She drank, then sagged back in his arms.

"Do you want food?"

She shook her head.

"_I_ think you should eat. Here," he said, giving her a bowl of watery soup and a spoon. He helped her lean against the wall, then sat back.

"I have to give the bowl and spoon back to Mr. Hill soon."

She looked up at him. "You begged this from him?" She began to put the bowl down, but he stopped her.

"You need to eat, Mama."

"And what have you eaten in the past few days?"

He shook his head. "I'm all right."

"I don't want you getting sick, boy."

"You know I've never gotten sick in my life, Mama. Don't worry about me."

"And what will happen to you when I – " She began to cry. The boy crawled over and put his arm around her.

"It's all right, Mama. Everything will be all right."

She shook her head and began to cry harder.

A knock sounded at the door, startling both of them. She immediately began wiping her eyes and arranging her dress.

"Open the door, boy."

He stared at her. "All right, Mama."

He opened the door, and a man stepped inside. He was clearly drunk, and yet was carrying a bottle.

"Good evening, Mr. Foxworth. It's good to see you again," she called.

"Sure it is." He stopped and rubbed his eyes, focusing on her. "You bin sick, woman?"

"No, of course not," she said rising. "I'm feeling quite energetic."

"Goo'."

The boy pressed himself back into the corner by the door, sat down, and put his face in his arms.

"Let me take that bottle for you, Mr. Foxworth," she said, moving close to him.

"No! I'm not finished yeh'."

She sat down on the blankets, and he joined her. The boy pressed his head deeper in his arms. After a few minutes, she cried out, then started coughing.

"Whazza matta witchoo? You sick?"

"No, I'm all right. Please. Relax."

She tried to pull him down, but fell back, and began coughing again.

"No! I ain't gettin' sick offa you!"

His eyes fell on the boy.

"I'll take him." He reached over and grabbed the boy, pulling him so that they were nose to nose. The boy could smell Foxworth's hot, sour breath.

"No! Leave him alone!" she cried, pulling at Foxworth. He pushed her frail figure away easily, but at the same time the boy pulled away, making Foxworth fall.

"Go! Take that bowl back to Mr. Hill!"

"Yes, Mama," he gasped, and ran out the door towards the tavern. He slowed to a walk, and entered the tavern.

"Mr. Hill, I brought your dishes back," he said, showing them to the man at the bar.

"Not here, you dunce! Take them to the scullery!" Mr. Hill said.

"Yes, sir. And thank you!" The boy pushed through the crowded tavern into the kitchen and greeted one of the maids.

"Hello, Nancy. Here," he said, giving her the dishes. She grabbed them, giving him a look of revulsion.

"Go out the back door," she commanded. He nodded and left, walking as slowly as possible to the shed that he and his mother had lived in for the past year. He walked around to the back and sat down on a rotting stump, trying not to hear what had become almost the soundtrack of his life. He hugged himself, shivering from more than the cool, windy night. Suddenly he heard a scream.

"Mama!" he cried, and ran into the shed.

Foxworth stood over her where she lay on the ground. They were both naked. He held a broken bottleneck in his hand.

"Mama!" the boy cried again. Foxworth turned.

"You!" he said. He grabbed the boy, pulling him close.

"You're a pretty boy. What do you do? Sit and watch while she works? Dirty boy. You ought to work for her too. She slaves away to put food in your mouth…"

Foxworth dropped the bottle and hugged the boy tightly.

"Pretty boy," he muttered again, and kissed the boy roughly. "Not like your dam. Who's your sire?" He kissed the boy again, holding him tighter. The boy pushed hard, knocking Foxworth off balance. He spun to look at his mother, lying in a mixture of blood, alcohol, and broken glass.

Foxworth grabbed him. "Forget about her."

"Leave me alone," the boy cried, pushing away.

"You shut your gob, you! C'm'ere!"

"No!"

Suddenly both man and boy screamed, and the boy ran back to the wall of the shed. Foxworth had erupted in flames! The boy's eyes went to the puddle surrounding his mother, and gave a little cry. He began trying to drag her out of the shed. Foxworth grabbed him, and he screamed and fled. As he left the shed, trying to beat the flames off his shoulder, villagers began coming out onto the street, staring and pointing.

"Arson!" someone yelled. The growing crowd surged forward, increased by the sudden outpouring of men from the tavern.

"That little rat set my shed on fire!" screamed the man with the house next to the shed.

"Get him!"

"No! Save the village!"

The boy turned and fled down the street, but strong hands grabbed him.

"You stay here, boy," said Mr. Hill.

"My – my mama…"

"She's – Was she in there?"

The boy nodded and wiped his tear-streaked face. Mr. Hill stared at him, then at the crowd and the shed.

"Oh, no," he muttered. The whole shed was consumed, and the fire had leapt to the closest barn and houses.

"My horses!" someone screamed, and several men surged forward to open the barn doors.

"Form a bucket chain," Mr. Hill shouted, and began running towards the crowd.

"No," the boy said, and Mr. Hill stopped and stared at him. "It won't help."

Mr. Hill shook his head and continued running. The boy stared after him. Several horses came running out of the burning barn, and some people laden with belongings out of the house. People began shouting about their own homes, and running to save their possessions.

"There he is!"

The boy turned. Six men were running towards him, armed with torches and an array of homely weapons. He started to run away, but before he could get very far, they laid hands upon him.

"You won't be trying arson again, you little rat!" one of them spat at him.

"Should we kill him now, or bring him before the headman?"

"Do it now – there'll be less to worry about later."

"With pleasure!"

One of the men, armed with a sickle, began approaching the struggling boy.

"No!" the boy cried. The men screamed: they were all engulfed in flames. They dropped him, and he promptly ran away.

The bucket chain seemed to have failed. Four homes were now on fire. The boy sat down and hugged his knees, looking about him for possible assailants.

"The tavern!" someone shouted, and a group ran past him to it.

The house closest to the boy was burning. One of the bodies of the men who had attacked him lay against it. The boy hid his face.

The would-be firemen ran out of the tavern, shouting, seconds before it exploded outward in flames with a strong smell of tar and alcohol and fear. Everyone who was not already in a panic was now. The screams of people and animals mixed with the crashes of collapsing buildings and the crackle of the fire. The boy whimpered, turning around and around and seeing only fire. A burning person ran towards him. That was the last straw. The ground introduced itself to him violently, and he knew no more.


	2. The First Adoption

The First Adoption

* * *

The boy screamed in pain, thrashing to stop the fire in his mind. The man hurried toward him from where he had watched the whole blaze, drawing the flames off the boy with a swift hand motion, like the dragging of a rope or the silencing of musicians. He knelt down next to the boy. The man met the boy's eyes, and spoke, "Orannis," as he pressed his hand to the boy's shoulder. The boy moaned, and the man waved his hand, putting the boy into a deep sleep. The man cut the boy's clothes off, and wrapped him in a sleek, clothlike material. He carried the boy away from the smoldering ruins of the town.

Sheltering in a cave during the storm, a man meditated. He opened his eyes and stared into his small cookfire without really seeing it, reflecting on the omens told him by the temple Elders, and those he had just seen. If they meant what he thought they did – and he was rarely wrong in these things – it could mean the end of life as he knew it. During a particularly loud crash of thunder, he suddenly focused on the flames. He thought he had just seen something – but maybe it was just a trick of the light. Yes, that was it...just a trick of the light. He shivered, and not because of the cool, windy, wet night. There it was again, and clearer. The thing was drawing nearer. He heard movement, and swung around to face the outside of the cave. He could see a misshapen figure in the blackness. It entered the cave, and in the weak firelight, he could see that it was not an it, but a he. The man approached the fire, and he scrambled out of the way. The man lay down his bundle by the fire, and knelt to tend it in such a way that he could not see what it was. He went to his pack and pulled out some food, and went about making soup, which he offered to the stranger. Finished with his mysterious bundle, the stranger nodded his thanks and accepted the bowl. He watched the man, and ventured, "I am Laren."

The stranger continued eating. Laren sighed and wrapped his cloak around himself in preparation for sleep. He glanced again nervously into the fire. The symbol flashed into his mind.

The stranger finished his bowl and laid it down. He watched Laren, and crept out of the cave when he was sure Laren was asleep. The bundle stirred fitfully behind him. He hesitated, then took an amulet off his neck and put it around the boy's tenderly. He left the cave, making sure his cloak was tight around him though the rain had died to a drizzle.

Niklaren Goldeye awoke with the dawn, seeing immediately that his nighttime visitor was gone – but had left a gift. Hesitantly, Niklaren unwrapped the bundle, and gasped at what he saw. It was a boy – but barely recognizable as such. The boy was so badly burned that by rights he should be dead, but Niklaren could see breath misting the bowl that he held to the boy's lips. The fire leapt and screamed the symbol at him, but Niklaren extinguished it and grabbed his pack. He bundled up the boy and hurried off with him to the Healers at Winding Circle Temple.


	3. Consultation

Consultation

* * *

"He'll live," Daro reassured Niklaren.

"Well, seeing as you're the chief healer here, I suppose I have to take your word for it."

"I'm not saying he won't be unharmed."

"Of course…what do you mean?"

"He'll have a lot of scarring, especially in the face."

"Can't you do anything for that?"

"Yes, I can, but even so… and since his face was so badly burned, his eyes…well…"

"You're sure?"

"No, I'm not sure. He'll have to be with me for at least four months for me to do anything. You'll have to persuade the temple heads that he should be here. They know I'm a softie, so I have no pull here."

"I think I can do that. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Not right now, but come back in a few days."

"All right. Thanks again, Daro."

"Of course."

Niklaren left the healing center and strode toward the Light Temple, where the office of the Dedicate Superior, Moonstream, was. He knocked on her door and entered when a soft voice called bad him to.

"Good morning, Moonstream," he said.

"Niklaren Goldeye, whenever you come to my office, it's because you've done something I won't like. So what is it? Found an apprentice in the streets of Sotat? Another pity case?"

"I thought you liked my 'pity cases'."

"You know I have to be hard sometimes. I didn't get my job by letting in every thief and orphan in the country. But," she sighed, "I trust your judgment, Niklaren. So, what is it this time?"

"A boy. I left him with Daro."

"Injured? Not an apprentice?"

"Burned. I don't know how it happened. I was meditating and then a man came in from the rain and, in the morning, he was gone, leaving the boy."

Moonstream leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. "Niklaren…do I have to remind you that we are a _temple_? We can't afford to be a charity hospital."

"I know that, but he would die otherwise. Daro was with him all night."

Moonstream eyed him. "There's something you're not telling me, Niklaren."

Niklaren stared at her. "You're right." He paused. "I saw an omen."

"An omen. An omen of what?"

"I'm not sure."

"That's not true, is it?"

"No, it's not. I think – no, I know – it was the fire emblem."

"The fire emblem? What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"The Orannis? Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"What does it mean?"

"That is part of the reason that I brought the boy here."

"So you saw it then?"

"Yes. I don't know the connection with him, but I think that there is one."

"Is it possible that the man who brought him to you…?"

"It is… you know that we try not to…touch people."

"Yes, I know. You did your job."

"Once Daro is done with him, I want to take him."

"You've expressed interest in some other students. And there are some students I want you to take."

"I know. I can handle the five. But I won't be alone. Dedicates Lark, Rosethorn, and Frostpine have agreed to help."

"All right. But I think five is quite enough."

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

"Good day, Niklaren."


	4. Healing

Healing

* * *

Fire was all he knew. Fire was his world. It existed alone, without judgment or feeling or thought. Fire was time eternal and yet was an instant. He felt everything and nothing – but the all-encompassing fire slowly gave way to a cool darkness. Soft breezes played across his body that in parts burned and stung. Semiaware, he vaguely considered what he was. He longed to return to the fire, but the thought kept nagging at his tired mind: what was he?

Time was an instant, time was forever, but his awareness again expanded. Voices came. Men's voices. He strained his mind, body, ears to hear them. Sound faded in and out, popped and crackled, but he heard them discussing a young boy who had been hurt, had been burned half to death. He wondered who this boy was, whose skin was corroded and whose eyes were almost certainly destroyed.

The voices ceased, and soft footsteps game way to a door opening and closing. The cool breezes were replaced by a hand on his shoulder.

"My name is Niklaren Goldeye. I am a teacher here, a teacher and a helper of young people. If you consent I will be your teacher."

The hand was removed, and he heard the creaking of a chair.

"You have been badly injured in an accidental fire. I and another man who specializes in fire injuries will heal you. His name is Daro. He is very gentle and trustworthy and will use all his skill to heal you. However, he has told me that the damage was extensive and that he will not be able to restore you completely. We will enable you to live well, but you must trust us completely."

The chair creaked again.

"Until tomorrow, then."

Footsteps gave way to silence.

Dark, quiet time passed, and he learned that these were days and nights. He learned to trust and to heal. Daro was a warm, steady, soothing hand that drove away what he learned was pain. Niklaren was a pillar of steel that brought him back when he tried to flee to the place of fire and darkness. Each week, Daro proclaimed progress. But his face was always sealed and his world was always black. When he tried to touch it with what he learned were hands, another pair of hands, sometimes big and strong and hard, sometimes small and slender and soft, took his and stroked them until the panic and claustrophobia ceased. What Niklaren taught him about language he was eager to put into practice, but he was always told to wait. He had conversations in his mind in which he was whole and talked to Niklaren in a world of light. He sometimes dreamt of springing free of his endless dark confinement and singing joyfully of the fire. When Niklaren knew this he tried to turn him away from it but that was the one place he would not leave behind.

Daro sometimes touched his face and made it burn with pain for days and then cool. Sometimes he heard hushed conferences about the futility of grafting the skin of his face or of any hope for his eyes or his pharynx. When he was frightened he went to hide in the dark, quiet, cool place Niklaren had showed him, and where he would not be disturbed.

But enough time passed for most of his body to recover, and finally all that was left was his head. Daro and Niklaren came to him and told him that he would never see the world, but that all might not remain black. He felt Niklaren's pillar of steel and slipped into a different reality. The sounds and smells took on color and form in shades of blue, purple, and black. He felt and saw Niklaren's grey and blue form and Daro's steady purple-brown. Questing further, he saw other shapes and shadows – but Niklaren withdrew the contact. Left again in darkness, a moan escaped his lips – his first sound in months. Daro put a hand on his shoulder.

"You can live and you can feel the world as you just did. I have done almost all I can for your body and now Niko will take your mind even further."

"Soon your body will be recovered and you will finally leave this hall," Niko said. "You will come join my other students."

"I will now remove your face-mask, hopefully for the last time," Daro said. He called his attendant Sasha and asked Niklaren to leave.

"I'll return tomorrow," Niklaren said.

* * *

The voices came again, but they seemed closer to his ears. He came out of his dark place to a cool, soft, comfortable world. Seeing that he stirred, Niklaren touched his shoulder by way of introduction and said, "We'll spend the next week or so teaching you how to speak and walk. You may have serious problems in speech and sound from breathing in the fire, Daro told me, but he thinks that there may be some hope for that. Also, your feet are now fully healed and the skin won't hurt to step on."

He was glad to be able to smile and nod in response, glad to please his friend and teacher.

Time passed, and Niklaren finally determined that he was ready to leave the halls he had been in for nearly six months. He had grown close to Niklaren, Daro, and Sasha in their trust and was sad to leave the only people he knew behind, so he was glad to learn that Niklaren would spend much of his time with him and the other students and that he would also visit Daro and Sasha twice a week. A few days before he was due to leave, Niklaren asked him a question.

"Do you know what your name is?"

He was sorry to answer in the negative.

"Perhaps you would like to choose a name. Sasha suggested the name Blazikan, based on the dialect her family speaks. I can find more for you to choose from, however."

"Blazikan? It seems… fitting. Sasha has also been of great help to me so I would like to acknowledge it in some way. I would like to use the name."


End file.
